Innocence: The 70th Hunger Games
by Tigerlils.the.Chipmunk
Summary: In the 69th Hunger Games six tributes committed suicide simultaneously. Furious at this, President Snow orders the Reapings to be rigged for six unlucky twelve year olds as punishment. Into the midst of this comes Titus, the first cannibal in the Games, and two manipulative girls from Districts 1 & 4. Ladies & Gentlemen, welcome, welcome to the 70th Hunger Games!
1. Chapter 1

**Innocence: the 70th Hunger Games. (TITLE SUBJECT TO CHANGE ONCE I CAN THINK OF A BETTER ONE.) **

**This is in a different tense form the rest of the story. I didn't realise until I'd written both, so I can't really change it, sorry.**

President Coriolanus Snow sits comfortably installed on his large couch, at home in his mansion. On the large wall screen in front of him plays the countdown of the 69th annual Hunger Games.

10.

9.

His large puffy fingers beat out an impatient rhythm on the edge of one cushion.

8.

7.

He accepts a drink from one of his Avox slaves, sips from it eagerly.

6.

5.

He finishes his drink in seconds and stares expectantly at the screen.

4.

3.

Boom!

His observant eyes pick out the movement that begins it. One girl jumps, and starts a wave of tributes jumping off their plates in complete disregard for those around them.

The cannon sounds to signal the start of the Games, but Snow hardly notices it. His fists are clenched and his face is contorted in nameless fury. His tongue flicks once over his puffy lips, and then he sends for Seneca Crane.

/

For his part, Seneca Crane barely notices the wave of suicidal tributes. He only listens with one ear when an assistant tells him the casualties, because as he himself says: if there are more than two tributes left in the Games, then there is no time for considering losses. But when President Snow sends for him barely ten minutes into the Games, Seneca spends a moment finding out how many tributes really had jumped. They turns out to be more than they looked. Many more.

Face pale and sweating heavily, Crane jumps into his private car and heads straight for the President's mansion.

/

There are none of the usual formalities when the two men meet. Crane can see the madness, contained behind just a thin shield, in those snakelike eyes, and Snow can barely contain his fury long enough to stay civil.

"How many jumped, Crane?"

The man in question gulps. "S-six, sir."

"Are you aware of how many that is in a percentage form, Crane?"

"Twenty - twenty-five percent, I think."

Both of Snow's fists clench. "Correct, Crane."Then, mockingly, "You must have been such a good student in school. But I digress. Now, can you tell me which Districts these defiant children came from?"

"Eight, sir, and Seven. Five and Six, too, I think, and two from Eleven."

"Very good, Crane. Now. . . What shall we do to these defiant children?"

"Sir, they are dead. You cannot harm them now."

"Of course not. And I suppose, though satisfying, harming the families would not get the message across in full. But, perhaps . . ." A bloodthirsty smile spreads across his face. "We do have next year's tributes."

"Sir?"

"The people in the Districts detest watching young children in the Games, do they not?"

"It is not a Quarter Quell year, sir. It will not be for many years."

"In that case, we will make do with the youngest we can get, without changing the rules." The President pauses a moment to gather his thoughts, and also for a sordidly dramatic effect. "Crane, you shall see to it that six twelve year olds are Reaped from the districts whose children rebelled today. But make sure that you get it perfect, right down to gender. After the failure today, you are lucky to be getting a second chance. There will not be a third one."

Seneca Crane gulps. "Ye-yes, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, this is a surprise. Probably more for me than for any readers I may have, though. I suppose, when I deleted this for the first time, that I expected it to, well, stay deleted. But then I realised that I had so many chapters written out that not using them would be almost a crime, so . . . I reposted this and rewrote the first few, horrific chapters that I detested.**

**Quick timeline:**

**45th Games - Chaff **  
**50th Games - Haymitch Abernathy**  
**59th Games - Enobaria**  
**63rd Games - Cashmere **  
**64th Games - Gloss **  
**65th Games - Finnick Odair**  
**67th Games - Johanna Mason**  
**69th Games - Annie Cresta (AU, I think. Has to be, though, for the sake of this story.)**  
**74th Games - Katniss and Peeta **  
**75th Games - Rebellion**

**If you're unaware, this is the story of Titus, who actually gets a bit upstaged by my OC's, but . . . Oh well. I'm still unsure of how stable he was before the Games, so I'm going to avoid writing him as much as possible until the Games begin. Then I can go into gory details of death . . . except that I won't because I dislike gore.**

**Chapter One: the Reaping****.**

I wake up relatively calmly, which is a surprise twice over since I didn't expect to get any sleep at all, not with my first Reaping tomorrow and the complications that are part and parcel of it. But I'm not in a cold sweat, or shivering, so perhaps I'm a little braver than I think. Just a little.

Inwardly congratulating my subconscious, I slip out of bed, shiver in response to the chilly air, and change into my best dress and shoes even before checking the weather. It takes ten minutes to find them all and another five to put them on, but I know I shan't be waking anyone, so I can take as long as I want.

Being fully dressed somehow unfreezes my stomach and makes me realise how hungry I am, so I clatter down through my cousins' room into our kitchen, making no attempt to be silent. I can hear my aunt singing lustily and off-tune, perhaps to encourage me and her children, Bentleigh and Ashton. It's Ashton's second Reaping, and Bentleigh's fourth, so neither of them have better odds than I, even though we've all taken out one lot of tesserae.

"Vera!" my aunt smiles. "Dressed already? Good girl! Better than them, - " she gestures mock-scornfully to her sons, who are sitting in their thin pyjamas eating breakfast at the table -" anyway."

Ashton pokes out his tongue -immature thirteen year old- but Bentleigh manages to formulate a more civilised reply that is only slightly undermined by the fact he has a mouth full of breakfast. "'Least we're getting fed, Vera. By the time we're done there won't be anything left but cold mash! Though," he muses, "you might get Reaped and then you'd get a great lunch to make up for it."

Suddenly, I feel like sitting down next to them and eating is not such a good idea. My stomach turns, and with a gulp, I run from the room. There is a clatter behind me as my aunt drops her serving spoon, and then the muted thumps of her feet, presumably following me. But I don't stop until I reach the toilet and am able to retch up the meagre contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl. Then I let my aunt hug me and whisper meaningless reassurances into my ears - "_It'll be alright, love_," - "_Two slips, Vera, out of more than a thousand_," - "_They aren't going to pick you, I promise_." But somehow they aren't as calming as she would have them be.

/

The chill that was apparent in the morning has carried through to the afternoon, and now, at two o'clock, it is time for the Reaping. We stand in a queue to have our fingers pricked, and when my turn comes I have to look away and close my eyes to stop a cry escaping. Deep down, I know that my low pain tolerance will probably be my undoing if I am reaped for the Games, so once again I pray to any deity or lucky star I may have been born under for safety.

Soon, we are all herded into pens - like sheep, in a way, for we all move slowly and follow the bravest among us - that will presumably make it easier for the Peacekeepers if the reaped child decides to make a run for it. If you've been reaped in District Six, though, all you can do is pray for a volunteer, because the square here is fortified and the only way out is past a whole row of Peacekeepers. But it's alright. I won't be reaped. I can't be reaped. My aunt promised, and not once in her lifetime has she broken a promise. . .

I'm interrupted by our ditz of an escort, Serendipity Valour. She chirps out a "Hello,welcome, _welcome_," even though it's _our_ district, and she probably wouldn't even think of setting foot in it if it weren't for the Games. At least, that's what Bentleigh says, before Aunt hushes him and says admonishingly, "No, that's treasonous talk, and do you want to end up in the Games yourself, idiot boy?"

At this point, my best friends Kailey and Petra pop up out of the crowd and we give each other wan smiles and cling together, terrified and silent. "Hi, Vera," Kailey murmurs, and then quietens because our Mayor is reading out the Treaty of Treason, and none of us have ever heard it sound quite as terrifying as it does now. It seems to drag on forever, each new clause more alarming than the last.

_". . .each district will supply one man and woman from between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate in an annual fight to the death . . ."_

I tune him out after hearing this, and try to visualise my parents in my mind, which is not unduly hard, even though they've been dead two years and counting, as has my uncle. Petra lost her eldest brother in the same accident, and Kailey a third cousin twice removed. It was a big accident, and we're a small district, so one way or another most people lost someone; because of it, for a few days afterwards school was cancelled., and that made it memorable to the few whose families were still intact.

A raindrop plinks down onto my head and interrupts my reverie. Then another, and another, until the dirt ground below our feet has been reduced to mush that borders on mud, and our clothes have turned several shades darker. Perhaps in a response to this, Serendipity takes over the microphone and announces that she'll draw the Reapings now so that we can all get home quickly. Perhaps she's more a person than I'd thought. Or maybe she's just worried because she's wearing a white dress. It's hard to tell.

"Ladies first!" and Petra's grip on my arm becomes so tight I wonder if she'll cut off circulation. When Serendipity reaches an arm into the girls Reaping ball, Kailey's breath hitches in her throat. And when she pulls out the slip, all three of us turn to unmoving stone with terror. "Titus," she calls out. "Titus Mitchell. I don't think this is the girls' bowl!" She laughs affectedly, but I only hear this with one ear; my eyes are, with everyone else's, glued to the unfortunate blond boy in the seventeen-year-old section.

"No," he says, sounding half-strangled. "_No_!"

"Come on up, Titus!" says Serendipity. "Don't be shy."

He looks distraught, but when the Peacekeepers start closing in he seems to realise that trying to escape is futile, and he walks up to the stage of his own accord, blinking hard. I wish he hadn't done that, because it's probably diminished his chance of sponsors, but it's better than crying, I guess.

"And now, the girls!" says Serendipity exuberantly, her blue wig wobbling precariously atop her head. "Let's see." She reaches into the bowl, picks a slip, reads a name that for a few precious seconds I don't register. And then it hits. The name she's said is Vera Bradford. And that's _me_.

Somehow I make my legs move, pull myself away from Petra and Kailey, climb the steps to the stage. I'd like to say that I do my best to walk normally, but truthfully it is all I can do to keep my face stiff without worrying about a wobbly gait, too.

The stage itself, once I reach it, seems so much higher than I'd expected and in a way everything is surreal and other-worldly, like I'm stepping into an alien planet. Serendipity says something that I tune out, because it's probably another version of whatever she said to Titus - "Aren't you a thin one, now!" - and really, I have no interest whatsoever in my weight being discussed in front of the entire district. Instead, I focus on a spot above the crowd's heads, so that I don't have to look down and see my cousins and aunt and friends, and all those other people whose acquaintance I have made at some point in my life.

Serendipity asks for volunteers; the square is so silent that I can hear the wind whistling through the tiled roofs of the shops that surround the square. When I shake hands with Titus I bite down so hard on my tongue that I can taste the metallic tang of blood, and even then my small hand is shaking uncontrollably inside his. He squeezes tightly, and I try to do the same: it's an expression of all the feelings we'll never be able to voice. Even though we're complete strangers, having never met once, we can emphasise with each other at this moment, and I guess we'll never be strangers again, even if we weren't travelling to the Capitol together.

Serendipity smiles and moves between us, forcing us to separate and relinquish our grips. "May I present," she says dramatically, "Vera Bradford and Titus Mitchell, your tributes for the 70th annual Hunger Games!" In credit to our District, there is only a smattering of applause, none of which emanates from the twelve or sixteen year old sections. And the adult crowd is silent.

Peacekeepers escort us briskly from the stage, surrounding us so surprisingly  
and meaning that what may be my last glimpses of District Six are that of the muddy path beneath my feet and the ominous looking Justice Building up ahead. I try to turn around for one last look at the Square, but a Peacekeeper steps in front of my line of sight. And then we are inside the dark Justice Building, shaking raindrops from our hair and clothes, and the sick feeling that I've been bottling up inside of me comes up in a fast, nauseating rush. The world turns black.

**I do not beg for reviews, although they are appreciated. Criticism is received with love and cookies.**


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